Out
by somethingcool
Summary: Stan wants to tell the whole world that he's totally in love with his best friend, but Kyle thinks that's a bad idea. Stan/Kyle. COMPLETE AT LAST!
1. Chapter 1

Out

According to the clock beside me (who, after all, has no reason to lie), it's only just seven in the fucking morning. This is no hour for anyone to be awake, especially not a college student who drank enough to hospitalise an elephant the night before. Believe me, I wouldn't be awake if I were left to my own devices, but my room-mate evidently has very different ideas on what's appropriate. Given that he's currently thrusting his crotch in my face whilst his music assaults my eardrums, it's also evident that he has different ideas on what's appropriate than the rest of the world.

"I want your ugly, I want your disease," he croons at me, hand outstretched. I weakly try to bat it away, but he just uses that as leverage to haul me up and start dancing with me. I mentally make a note to just hide under my bedding next time this happens, which, knowing Stan, will be tomorrow morning. He keeps singing, loudly enough to elicit angry knocks on our wall. Something's making him really chipper, which I like, but I'd like even more if he'd waited until later in the day to feel it. Or chose to express it by blowing me.

"Hey," I croak, my voice wrecked by last night's partying, "What do you mean, 'bad romance'? Our relationship is awesome."

Stan simply laughs, shaking his head, and keeps singing. He pulls my body to and fro in line with the music, letting me just flop around like a rag doll. Finally, the song's over, and I can switch the damn noisemaker off and dive back into bed. Stan joins me, snuggling close and nuzzling my neck.

"Why the hell are you so happy, anyway?" I groan, rubbing my forehead. Was that beer or diesel that I drank last night?

"We go back home today, dumbass," he laughs. "Aren't you looking forward to seeing everyone again?"

"Not enough to prance around-"

"You so did," Stan interjects, cheekily kissing me on the nose. "And you loved it."

"Not enough to willingly prance around," I correct myself, "And sing at seven in the fucking morning. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone enough that I will maybe smile a little on the ride home, at a respectable hour of the day."

Stan cocks an eyebrow at that and I suddenly fret. Oh, please, don't let him say what I'm sure he's going to say.

"Didn't I tell you? My dad's going to pick us up in half an hour."

Motherfucker. Shit, scratch that. I really don't want to imagine Stan balls deep in – I shudder enough that Stan flinches a little. He lifts my chin with his hand.

"Dude, you okay?" he asks, softly. "I'm sorry, it's just that Kenny's band has a gig tonight and I really wanted to make it back in time to see them play."

"It's cool," I say, taking his hand and kissing it. Like I could stay mad at him when he's turned those big blue eyes on me. "I just don't want to pack-"

"Done it for you."

"Or rush to the library for my books -"

"Also done."

"And... Huh." I shrug. "Well, I don't want to get dressed."

Stan smirks. No, scratch that, it's not lewd enough for his expression now. He fucking leers as he inches closer, the timetable of his train of thought painted all over his face.

"I'll help." He lightens me of what I've currently got on – which is more than I usually wear to bed, I must have collapsed on the bed as soon as we got back last night – and starts putting his hands and lips and tongue to work.

Half an hour later, we're faced with the prospect of Stan's dad arriving soon and neither of us want to move from our current entangled position, snug in bed together. All Stan's diversion did was, well, divert me and I'm lazier than ever now he's robbed me of what little energy I had. Not that I'm complaining, but I really do need to put some clothes on before Stan's dad walks in on us like this.

The mental image is enough to make me leap over Stan's sleepy frame and start tugging on whatever clothes are closest to hand. I hear Stan murmuring something and I'm guessing he's turned to see what I'm doing, but I can't be sure because I've rammed my head into a sweater sleeve and now I'm stuck. Fan-fucking-tastic. I tug at it, but apparently I was so forceful the first time it's unwilling to set me loose. Stan's laughing at me, the bastard. I pull at it more frantically, hopping around with difficulty because I also seem to have both legs down one hole in my boxers. As I topple over, Stan's laughter only gets louder.

Luckily, he's not so much of an asshole that he'd let me slam my face into the floor. He pulls me back towards the soft safety of the bed and starts freeing me from my trap. The first thing I see once released from the stupid evil jumper is his face, lit with amusement.

"Dude, relax," he says, as I carefully and quickly pull my clothes on properly.

"Stan, we've got a lot to do before your dad arrive," I babble, hunting for a sock. Why is it that the damn things never come in pairs once they've been used once or twice? I swear, the college is haunted by a sock-eating ghost. "We've got to put away all the lube and condoms, move the beds apart, check that we haven't left anything else suspicious out-"

Stan mocks me by yawning loudly. I glare and chuck the dirtiest pair of underpants I can find at him.

"This is important, Stan. We can't have our parents knowing about this."

Stan frowns and sits upright. I'm pleased I've got his attention at last, but he's still not reacting how I want or expect, i.e. dashing around to remove all traces of our new buttbuddiness.

"You're not going to tell your parents?" I shrug, pulling on a yellow sock I didn't know either of us had.

"Maybe. In the future. After they've died."

"So, what, am I your dirty little secret now?" Sock crisis now averted, I turn to him. He's actually looking pissed, which surprises me.

"Stan, it's not like your parents or mine will be overjoyed to learn that we're ramming each other's asses on a daily basis," I remind him. "Remember how our moms keep asking if we've met nice girls and placing bets on who'll be a grandma first? Or how our dads keep encouraging us to 'play the field'?"

Stan waves a hand dismissively. In this moment, I'm both envying and despising his carefree attitude. I wish that I could treat my parents uncovering my sexuality as a minor annoyance, but I have enough sense and experience to know that'd be a fucking stupid move. Whilst mom's pretty tolerant of other people's sexualities, I have more than an inkling that she'd be pissed if she knew her little bubbelah was never going to make her a grandchild of her very own.

Since Stan's being a lazy fucker and not shifting from under the comforter, I chuck a bunch of clothes at him and hope he can be trusted to figure the rest out. My attention's been switched to the state of the room and how to make it look as innocent as possible. I sweep miscellaneous items off the desk and into a waiting drawer and turn to checking what Stan's packed for me. His definition of packing is apparently to just hurl a bunch of clothes into a suitcase, regardless of what the clothes are or who their owner is. I try to split mine and Stan's clothes up and throw them into our respective suitcases. I know I'm not doing a perfect job, but given how I've been wearing Stan's clothes (and vice versa) since we could dress ourselves, I'm willing to bet no-one will notice or care, but if I don't at least try it'll bug me.

I move onto the most daunting task: moving the beds apart. Luckily, Stan is sitting on the one closest to the wall, so after a bit of pulling and pushing the beds are just as they were when we arrived, before we were boning. With that, our little secret is kept.

"I was going to tell my parents," I hear Stan say, his voice sullen. I'm so wrapped up in making sure I have everything ready I can only manage a questioning murmur. "About being bi. About us."

"But then they'd tell my parents and then my parents will know that I like guys," I point out. "Then all of a sudden, I will find myself inundated with dates with nice Jewish girls."

"Bullshit," Stan retorts. "You parents think I'm great."

"As a friend," I say, watching Stan wince at the emphasis on friend. "You're short of mom's ideal partner for me by a uterus."

"So what're we going to do in the future?" he asks, flinging the comforter off the bed and trying to stare me down. He'd look more menacing if he wasn't clad only in a t-shirt and one sock. "We're just going to 'happen' to live with each other and 'happen' to not date anyone else? Or were you planning to get a few fucks on the side as a cover?" It's my turn to wince at the bile he spits at me in the last sentence.

"Don't be stupid," I say, my voice faint. "I'll be faithful. Like anyone would question us living together, anyway. We've always been inseparable."

"But...you don't ever want to get hitched?" Stan pleads.

"Like either of us would look good in a dress," I respond. Stan's prevented from arguing further by a knock at the door. I hurry to answer it as Stan finally decides it might be a smart move to put some more clothes on.

"Hey, Randy," I say as I creak open the door enough to greet Stan's father, but not enough for him to see that his son is still not dressed. "How was the trip? Sorry to drag you out of bed so early."

"It's cool, I didn't sleep," Randy says, weaving his way past me into the room.

"Dad!" Stan yells. He's clothed now, as I knew he would be – he's pretty fast at getting dressed, though not as fast as he is at getting undressed. He's also pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit I hope he'll never grow out of. "Goddammit, that is so stupid and dangerous."

"Hey, Kyle," Randy responds, elbowing me and grinning. "Check this pussy out. What a square, huh?"

"...people haven't used 'square' like that since before I was born."

As a group, we haul the luggage to Randy's car. At first Randy's charging ahead, carrying far more than he ought and suggesting Stan and I start looking at pension schemes. Because we're elderly. He repeatedly makes sure we both understand the implications of his insults.

"Because you two are lagging behind, lacking energy, not able to keep it up all night like me!" he yells at us. Then he catches sight of some sorority chicks doing whatever it is sorority chicks do and winks. "Yeah, you heard, ladies."

"Oh God, kill me now," Stan moans. I pat him lightly on the back with my free hand, but he jerks his shoulder away.

Since he evidently wants to be difficult, I leave him to sulk and hurry forwards to walk with Randy. Almost immediately I regret this decision. He's ceased trying to flirt with girls whose mothers are probably too young for him and his all nighter is finally catching up with him. Before I know it, I've been lumbered with all of the luggage he was carrying.

We chuck the bags in the boot of the car. Stan wordlessly takes the driver's seat and his dad sleepily calls shotgun. I'm half hoping that Stan will object and we can talk out our argument whilst Randy snoozes in the backseat, but he stays silent and so do I. Never mind. I can piss him off by playing Street Fighter at full volume.

The journey back isn't fun. My handheld's battery dies only a couple of hours in and Stan has control of the radio. He's got it booming Sisters of Mercy at full volume and there's no way I can block it out with my iPod without gaining punctured eardrums and a migraine. Somehow, Randy sleeps through all of this.

Despite the noise in the car, the silence between me and Stan is really noticeable and uncomfortable. I kind of want to take over driving a bit so Stan can take a break, but I don't want to cave first. Of course, if he asked, I would absolutely take over. Problem is, Stan's a stubborn bastard, so now he's stuck driving us all the way across the country. I smile.

He's fiddling with his own iPod now. I brighten up, hoping he's going to discard the terrible ancient goth stuff and put on something good. He probably would have done, too, if he weren't being an asshole, but instead he's put on the fucking Scissor Sisters. They were probably the closest band in his list who he knew I despise. I see the bastard smirk in the rear view mirror.

"The awesome thing about driving is that you get to pick the music," he says, the implication dripping from his voice. I scowl and don't fall for it.

After an excruciating car journey in which Stan hit me with every band I've ever expressed dislike for, I'm finally dropped off outside my house. Stan stays in the car with the sleeping Randy, not bothering to help me with my bags.

"Remember, we've got Kenny's gig tonight," he says once I've retrieved everything, then speeds off without another word. I'm left standing on the sidewalk, struggling to hold all my bags and not drop anything like a fool.

Goodbye to you too, asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that hits me about Kenny's band is that they don't suck nearly as much as they used to. For a start, the music they're playing isn't plagiarised (that I can tell) from other bands, with the lyrics cunningly changed to suit whatever Cartman felt like hating on at that moment in time. I'm slightly surprised to not see Cartman onstage, but it does explain why there's actually a crowd of people watching them.

I find Stan and Cartman by the bar. They're both clutching beer bottles, but Stan's is significantly emptier than Cartman's. If I were alone with the fatass, I'd need to drink, too. I greet them with a wave. If I were expecting a warm welcome, I'd be sorely disappointed, since Cartman tells me to fuck off and Stan just looks away. I stride past them and flag down a bartender.

I get a couple of shots of whisky and a beer. I throw the shots down my throat in quick succession, my throat burning, but right now I'd do anything to stop myself fretting about Stan any more. I need to act calmly and unperturbed, lest Stan knows he's getting to me or worse, Cartman sees me suffering. That'd be unbearable.

I make my way to the front of the crowd, close enough to touch the band were I some sort of crazy stalker. I wave at Kenny, who responds far more favourably than Stan and Cartman and actually deigns to grin at me. The grin suddenly fades as he looks around me. I take a swig of my beer, pretending to be unaware of why he's confused. It's a pretty dumb thing to even attempt, as anyone who's known us for the past several years is aware that Stan and I are inseparable except when we're fighting. Which isn't often, but still.

The song finishes. After the applause has died down, Kenny snatches the microphone from the singer. I can tell, before he's said a word, that he's got something wicked in mind. My stomach churns as he turns that grin to me.

"I want to dedicate this next song to my fucking hot friend Kyle," he purrs. "Babe, South Park has missed that fine ass."

He shoves the mic aside, grabs my shirt, pulls me in and kisses me. I keep my lips firmly closed, pushing him back with my hands on his chest. Kenny ignores this display of resistance and just pulls me closer. I give him a real shove and he stumbles back, laughing. My first thought is to see how Stan's reacting. To my intense disappointment, the most he could muster is a brief look of disdain, before turning back to Cartman.

"Sorry about that, folks," I hear Clyde say. He's got the microphone back now and he's giving Kenny a filthy look. "Kenny's just an uncontrollable whore. And unfortunately for Kyle, the next song is 'Yes, Your Butt Does Look Big in Those Jeans... And Everything Else'."

The band charges into the song. My face is burning. I'd really like to slink further back into the crowd, but I know that away from the safety of the band people will start teasing me about Kenny's...whatever the hell that was. I take a gulp of my beer to cool down, but Kenny's ad libbed interjections in the song are making me squirm even more.

"Yeah, your butt's so big," Clyde sings, swinging the microphone around himself and trying to portray the image of the confident front man. It's undermined by the way everyone cheers when Kenny interrupts.

"So round and luscious!" Goddammit, my butt is perfectly normal sized.

"Butt's so big..."

"I need to give it a squeeze!"

The other bandmates are sniggering at Kenny's antics, but Clyde is looking ready to murder Kenny. The way he's winding the microphone cord around his wrists and tugging at it is oddly threatening. For some reason, though, Kenny has never taken threats on his life very seriously and carries on singing, beaming at me the whole time.

"Yeah, your butt's so damn big."

"Big enough to take my huge cock."

I breathe a sigh of relief as the song finishes with Kenny alive and no repeat of the earlier surprise. I chug my beer but find it disappointingly empty. I contemplate buying another, but a glance at Stan laughing at something Cartman's said – probably at my expense – is more than sufficient to convince me to stay put.

The band start up a new song. I enjoy this one far more, since it doesn't draw more attention to me. Even so, I can't help checking the time and wondering how much longer I have to stay to be polite. Kenny's band isn't really my sort of music and without distractions, such as booze or a boyfriend/best friend who will actually talk to me, I'm getting pretty bored.

I glance around for friendly faces. Leaning against the wall, far removed from everyone else, is familiar tall dark haired boy. He's looking as bored as I feel, but he doesn't feel any compunction about revealing it. Then again, it's practically his default expression, so he's protected from being called out on it. When he catches me looking at him he doesn't flip me off, so I take that as an invitation to head over there.

"Hey," I say, noting his full beer glass with envy.

"Hey yourself," he replies. He tilts his head, clearly evaluating me. "Where's your life partner?"

"Stan's not my fucking life partner," I respond through gritted teeth. This only makes him smile.

"Yet you knew exactly who I was talking about. Don't you live together now?"

"We're room-mates," I say, brusquely. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Why'd you care, anyway? You hate us."

"Mostly Stan. Want me to get you a beer?"

"Uh, sure..."

He disappears into the crowd, with his own beer in hand. His generosity is perplexing, but it's going to result in me getting closer towards inebriation so I try not to analyse it too much. I soon regret taking him up on the offer, though, since it's left me alone and more vulnerable. Bebe's heading towards me with a fiendish grin and a glint in her eyes, tugging along an already apologetic looking Wendy.

"Hi, Kyle!" Bebe greets me.

"Hi..."

We all stand in silence for a few minutes, but I know Bebe's not done. Wendy keeps shooting her reprimanding glances, but the other girl is determinedly ignoring them. The band take a break, in order to "get fucking wasted and butcher everything we play after this". Their words. Clyde says it as a joke, but given that Kenny ploughed through the crowd before he'd even finished announcing the break, it's reasonable to assume that he's taken it as a challenge.

"So, Kyle, what do you think to the band tonight?" Bebe asks, all innocence. I simply shrug, hoping that avoiding the bait will keep me off the hook. "I really liked that song Kenny dedicated to you," she continues, not to be deterred. "It was really moving."

"Moving?" I echo, too bemused to let that slip past.

"Uh huh. Kenny's lyrics were really heartfelt!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose for a second before I remember the origin of that habit and force my hand to my side. I try to keep my face blank and look Bebe in the eyes.

"Bebe, Kenny doesn't do heartfelt. The closest he can manage is cockfelt."

Bebe dissolves into giggles and Wendy's cracked a smile. I scan the crowd for Craig and, more importantly, my beer. Maybe I should have asked for two.

"So... You and Kenny, huh?" Bebe asks, winking at me. "Boy, is he lucky."

"No. Absolutely not. Never."

"Uh huh." She moves closer and draws a zigzag on my chest. My heart's pounding, but not because Bebe's a hot chick who's at least pretending to come on to me. My head is filled with Stan, images of him smiling, sleeping, sucking...and then visions of how he'd react if he saw this. My stomach seems to shrink and tense. "If I were to invite you back to mine tonight..."

"It'd be a no, because I have a girlfriend," I say, gently pushing her back by her shoulders. Wendy yanks Bebe towards her, but looks at me.

"I didn't know you had a girlfriend, Kyle!" she says, smiling at me. "That's great, though. Is she nice?"

"Yeah," I mumble, trying to think of a realistic sounding name in case they prod my flimsy story. Luckily, my knight in shining armour re-merges at that moment and holds out a glass of beer to me.

"Beer," he announces, but I've already got the glass to my lips. Wendy seizes the opportunity and drags Bebe away. Craig doesn't say anything more, his eyes focused on me. I take the glass from my mouth and am slightly embarrassed to see that it's already half empty. Craig just laughs.

"Those guys really drive you to drink, don't they?"

"Who, Bebe and Wendy?" I ask, stupidly, wiping froth from my lip. He shakes his head.

"No. I mean-"

Suddenly, Stan, Cartman and Kenny are with us. I'm not sure how they managed to be so sneaky when usually I can hear Cartman from two towns over, but they did it somehow. From the expression on Craig's face, which has turned from ambivalent distaste to obvious disgust, I can figure out who has was referring to before. Right now, I can't blame him. Cartman is always up to shit, but right now he's grinning gleefully. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that he's thought of some way to make someone suffer. Kenny seems to be succeeding in his challenge to get pissed; he's holding beer glasses in both hands and he's swaying so much that Stan's having to support him. Fuck knows how he's going to manage on stage. Stan's looking angry, for some reason, and glaring right at Craig.

"Hey, Craig. Hey, Kyle," Cartman simpers. "What're you guys up to?"

"Drinking," I respond. "Question answered, so you can fuck off now."

"Kyle, what kind of greeting is that for an old friend who's missed you?" Cartman asks, still using that same simpering tone.

"Why aren't you fucking off?" Craig asks, giving Cartman the familiar finger.

"Thought you hated Kyle," Stan interrupts. He hasn't taken his eyes of Craig this whole time. "Why so pally now?"

"Why the fuck do you care? You didn't seem to want to talk to him half an hour ago."

"Because he's my-" My heart leaps in my chest and visions of Stan being sad be fucked, I can't take a risk on what he's going to say next.

"Not any more," I hastily interrupt, before the stupid asshole can out me. "We're not best friends any more."

Stan's eyes are wide and finally focused on me. All he can manage is a small, soft, "Oh," and then he storms off into the crowd. I fight the urge to chase him. Kenny stumbles and Cartman, showing an unusual amount of sympathy, catches him.

"Gee, Kyle, that was mean," he says, still using that stupid voice. I ignore him and keep drinking.

"Kenny! Kenny!" Clyde bellows into the microphone. "Get your ass up here, you alcoholic fucktard!"

Cartman releases Kenny, who downs the rest of his beers before stumbling and swaying towards the rest of his band. Despite barely being able to walk, he's got a huge grin plastered on his face. He picks up his guitar and tries to strum a few notes. His face falls.

"Fuck!" he screams. "I can still play!"

Kenny's disappointed, but the audience cheers and Clyde's sigh of relief is caught by the mic. The band quickly launch into their next song before Kenny can get back to the bar to fix the problem.

"I can't believe you broke up with Stan in front of us, Kyle," Cartman yells at me, straining to be heard over the music.

"I didn't 'break up' with him, dumbass! I terminated our friendship!" I shout back.

"You mean your fuckship!"

"That's the stupidest portmanteau I've ever heard!" I retort, but my heart is back to thumping. He's just ragging on you, I tell myself. Cartman doesn't know. Cartman couldn't know.

"Yeah? Well you fucking Stan is an even stupider portpanto!"

"It's portmanteau, moron, and that doesn't make sense!"

"I saw Stan's photo of you!" Cartman screeches. If my heart beats any harder, it's going to fracture my ribs.

"Stan...Stan has a lot of photos of me," I mutter, though my face is red and I know exactly what photo he's talking about. It's Stan's background picture on his phone, after all, in which I'm sleeping, shirtless, in bed. At least, I have to hope it's that one, rather than the ones which are pretty X-rated.

"Fuck you both," Craig mumbles, pushing past us towards the exit.

"Craaaaig, come back!" Cartman yells after him. "I wanted to listen to your heart breaking some more!"

"What the hell are you talking about, fatass?" I ask, but I don't have the energy left to put my usual venom into it. Cartman knows I like guys which means pretty soon the whole world will know I like guys and that means that my parents will know I like guys because they live in the world, which Cartman will have told. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Oh, Craig's been secretly in love with you for years," Cartman replies. "You broke two hearts in one night. How does that make you feel?"

In a moment, my plan is made. It's time to sober up. I head to the bar and drink as much water as is humanly possible. I feel like a walking hot water bottle, but it's the only way. As the band take their final bow and start packing up, I dash forward and grab Kenny.

"Kenny, I'm going to take you home," I babble. "You need rest. Let's go."

"But I wanna drink," Kenny whines, but his bandmates are thoroughly supportive of my suggestion and help me pile Kenny into the passenger seat of my car. I'm uncomfortably aware that whilst my resistance to alcohol has strengthened considerably whilst at college and I've done what I can to get it out of my system, I'm probably straddling the alcohol driving limit still.

I consider calling the plan off and just getting a taxi back to mine to await whatever is coming for me at home, but just the thought of my mom's reaction to my manlove is enough to send all logic flying. I put the pedal to the metal to get the fuck out of South Park. Kenny soons drifts to sleep and only reawakens once we're so far from home that there isn't even a hint of snow on the horizon.

"This isn't home," Kenny mumbles, clutching his head. "Unless I did something other than beer last night."

I shake my head, grinning maniacally at him.

"No, Kenny. This is where we're going to start a strip club."

* * *

Dun dun duuuun! Oh, Kyle. You so crazy. Which is naturally my fault, but never mind. I do hope this story isn't too weird and is weird only in the South Park-esque way rather than in the "What were you _thinking,_" way. I have far too many ideas that fit into the latter category, such as Stan and Kyle as gender-switched students at an all-girls, old-fashioned, British boarding school. Yeah, I know.


	3. Chapter 3

Even though I'm keeping my eyes on the dimly lit road, I can tell Kenny is staring at me like I've lost my mind, or perhaps checking the door pockets for suspicious items. It's a fair enough response, I suppose, although he won't find anything except trash and CDs. Now I've been thinking about it for a few hours, abducting a friend and then announcing that they're your new business partner isn't exactly rational behaviour. I have a good reason, though – I don't want my Mom to find me before I've firmly proven my heterosexuality. Wait, is it proven if it's not true? God, I'm tired.

"What the fuck, dude?" Kenny eloquently asks. "It's five in the morning. Have you been driving all night? And why do you want to open a titty bar, anyway?"

"Why wouldn't I want to?" I gabble, defensively. "I love boobs."

"Oh, god, what's going on?" Kenny moans. He peers at the backseat. "This isn't funny. Are you and Stan playing a trick on me?"

"We're not conjoined," I snap.

"Smaller words," he moans, clutching his head. "Jesus, how much have I drunk?"

"A lot. And Stan and I are through."

"You sound like you've broken up with the guy," Kenny mutters. Tears sting at my eyes and I try to rub them away like I've just got something in my eye. "Fuck, you – you were together? You were fucking?"

"No," I mumble, but the tears that won't be easily swept aside are starting to spill down my face. Kenny pats my shoulder very lightly, as though prepared to pull back if I suddenly snap. "Fine. Yes. For a few months."

I pull over and raid the glove compartment for tissues. Angrily, I swipe them over my face, trying to control the tears. We'd been so happy in that time. Why did Stan have to be an asshole and flaunt those pictures to Cartman? That must have been what he was laughing at. Me. I totally knew it.

"Uh. I'm sure if you called Stan, you could work it out," Kenny says, still nervously patting my shoulder. Kenny's a great guy, but he's not so good when it comes to emotions and relationships and shit.

"No. I blew it. He blew it. Besides, I can't go back to South Park."

"I'm pretty sure you can, dude. You just need to turn this car around and drive back the way you came."

"My Mom's going to kill me," I explain. "Cartman knows I've been fucking Stan. Soon, the whole state'll know and Mom'll kill me for not providing her with grandkids."

"Why'd you tell Cartman?"

"I didn't; Stan did."

"Why'd Stan tell Cartman?"

"'Cause he's an asshole," I sob, though it's out of anger and frustration this time. "He was pissed at me for not wanting to come out to my parents."

"Stan loves you," Kenny begins, but I quickly intercept that line of argument.

"You don't know that. You didn't even know we'd been together until five seconds ago." Kenny just rolls his eyes.

"I could tell he loved you like a friend ever since I can remember. He wouldn't have screwed you over like that."

"That's great except for the overwhelming evidence that he did," I insist. "Cartman knew about...this photo of me."

"Tell me about the photo." I shove him. "Remember that time Stan jumped off a cliff for you?" Kenny says, trying a different line of attack.

"It's hard to forget that summer, Kenny. We were both stuck in the hospital for almost a month." It was true, as well as really dumb. We'd gone on a school trip to Mesa Verde National Park and a mutated bobcat had charged me off a crag - not the huge, smooth, sandstone cliff at the top, but one on a grassy slope. Luckily there was a small flattened ledge not that far down, but I'd broken both legs in the fall. Whilst the park rangers shot madly at the boar, Stan tried to come to my rescue – not by climbing safely down, but by taking what he later termed the "quicker" route and skidding down the steep slope after me. Unsurprisingly, he too ended up with broken bones, and we both wound up trapped in a clinical hospital room. It was great, like a never-ending sleepover with morphine.

"There you go," he says, in a final sort of manner. "Case closed."

"Case promptly reopened for examination! That was years ago. There's nothing to say he'd still do that for me. Besides, I wouldn't have been in that part of the park if he hadn't wanted to find a mule deer."

"What about the time he staged a campaign to get that Prius advert off the TV because the jingle really pissed you off?"

"He hated it too. It really sucked. Besides, he was just paying me back for coaching him on French oral." I notice Kenny's lewd grin and it's my turn to roll my eyes and huff. "French oral isn't a euphemism, Kenny."

"Sure it isn't," he says with a nudge.

"Really. It means speaking French."

"Oh, I _bet_ there was frenching."

"There wasn't."

"There should have been. You had a perfect opportunity."

"French kissing has nothing to do with the language, Kenny."

"Whatever. We've proven that you two have been batshit crazy for each other since forever. You should drive us back to South Park and fuck and make up with Stan."

"No, because Stan is a douche and my Mom is going to cut me."

"Goddammit. Can we at least go get a drink or breakfast or something? My head's killing me."

My tummy is aching through lack of food and alcohol advice, so I concede that this is probably a good idea and get back on the road. Kenny's initial relief is dampened when he realises I'm still driving away from South Park.

"I'm not starting a titty bar with a gay guy," he groans.

"I'm not gay. I like girls, too."

"Do you? I mean, this whole fucking Stan thing explains why you never dated in high school."

"Fuck off."

"You abducted me! I should be the one telling you to fuck off!"

"And yet here we are." The sun rising on the horizon and getting in my eyes is doing nothing to improve my mood. It finally hits me that I'm really tired and, worse still, I've done exactly what Stan's dad did the night before. If not worse, since he probably hadn't been trying to drink his problems away prior to setting off. The realisation manages to make me feel even worse, which is quite a feat right now.

Finally we find a diner. It's the typical ubiquitous diner you find on the highways, with neon signs, ridged metal exterior and a chequered floor inside. As expected, the menu is cheap, cheerful and artery-clogging. I order French toast and strong coffee for me and enough food to feed an army for Kenny. He deserves something for being pretty good natured about the whole abduction. Kenny tops off his heart attack waiting to happen by requesting a chocolate coke.

When the drinks arrive, I stare forlornly at Kenny's drink. He scoots it away from me and takes a big slurp, as if afraid I'll change my mind and leave him with my boring black coffee, no sugar.

"You can't have this," he says. "It'll totally fuck your blood sugar up."

"Stan always lets me have a sip," I mutter, trying to keep my voice steady.

"For fuck's sake," Kenny sighs. "Does anything not remind you of that guy?"

In order to avoid looking like a fool or lying, I ignore the question. He's absolutely right, everything does remind me of Stan. We've never been to this diner together, but we've been to hundreds like it. I squirm as I remember one time that Stan and I stumbled into a diner late one night after spending much too long in a bar. I had a huge basket of fries and Stan got a sundae. The glistening ruby glacé cherry was too much to resist in my drunken state and I plucked it off the ice cream before Stan had even picked up his spoon. He just laughed.

"That's fine, but I'm totally gonna steal yours someday," he slurred, waving his spoon around.

I just pointed out that fries didn't come with a cherry and he looked pissed. I didn't get what he meant – or rather, didn't get confirmation of what I hoped he meant - until months afterwards.

Our food arrives and Kenny wolfs it down. In spite of my ravenous stomach, my food is completely unappealing. I take tiny bites, struggling to get each one down. Kenny's wiped all his plates clean before I've even eaten a third of my food and it's obvious that he's eyeing my food up hopefully. Stan doesn't bother waiting for clearance; he just stabs my food and eats it if he can tell I'm struggling with it.

Suddenly my phone rings. I hesitantly pull it out of my pocket. It's Mom. Fuck, do I answer it or not? Does she know? Or maybe she's just wanting to ask me something unrelated. That could happen, right?

"It's my Mom," I hiss at Kenny. "What do you think she wants?"

Kenny raises his eyebrows.

"How did you get into college?"

"Huh?"

"It's now..." He checks his watch. "It's almost midday and you haven't been home since last night. What do you think she wants?"

"It won't be that. She'll think I'm at..." My voice goes hoarse and the tears are stinging my eyes again. The phone keeps ringing and the other diners are probably glaring at us. Kenny snatches the phone and answers the call.

"Hey, Mrs Broflovski."

"Kenny!" I hear my Mom shriek. "Where's Kyle? He didn't come home last night and Sharon says he's not at her house."

"He's with me. We're at a diner."

"Let me talk to him!" Kenny passes the phone over obediently, rubbing his ear. I take it gingerly.

"Hi, Mom."

"Kyle, get your tush back here at once! Sharon says that Stan is distraught and won't talk to anyone!"

"He won't want to talk to me. Um. Have you heard anything from Cartman?"

"Kyle, come back here and apologise to your boyfriend!"

"Oh, fuck," I whisper.

"KYLE!" my Mom screams. "Language!"

"Oh, god, I'm dead."

"What, what, what?"

"Or in a coma," I gabble. "I shouldn't have driven for hours after drinking and without sleeping."

"WHAT? Kyle, how could you? Didn't I raise you better than that? And you're too young to drink! Which diner are you two at?"

"I dunno. It's in Santa Fe," I reply, numbly. "Or purgatory, I guess. Kenny, do you feel dead?"

"You're in NEW MEXICO?"

"Yeah. We're going to open a strip club," I say, my mouth running on auto-pilot. Will Stan mourn me? Or will he go to the funeral with Cartman, his new best friend, just to laugh?

"Kyle Broflovski," my mom whispers, her voice low and dangerous. "You will absolutely do no such thing."

"No, I will," I insist. "Assuming I'm not dead. It's the straight guy's dream, right?"

"Let me speak to Kenny. This instant." I pass the phone over happily. My mom's stopped shouting, so I don't know what she's saying to Kenny. The important thing is that I don't have to talk to her any more.

"Sure, Mrs Broflovski," Kenny says, sounding nervous. "Right away." He hangs up. "Get in the car, Kyle."

"Huh? What happened to our strip club?" I wail. Kenny ignores my protests, seizes my wallet and pays for the meal. Before I know it, we're in the car, with Kenny in the driver's seat. "Dude, are you abducting me now?"

"No offence, Kyle, but I'm way more scared of your mom than of you," he replies, hastily staring the car and getting back on the road. He's breaking the speed limit – but only just, he's obviously scared of getting caught whilst on this mission - and shaking.

"What did she say?"

"None of your business."

"I think I deserve some sort of forewarning, don't you?"

"You mean what she said about you?" Kenny asks, sounding honestly surprised. "Oh, man, I forgot."

"You forgot," I repeat, my voice hollow.

"Yeah. Now keep an eye out for cops and speed cameras, okay?"

"Kenny, you realise you're giving up your very own strip club for this, right?" I plead. "A strip club. Think of the boobs."

"It won't work, dude. Your mom's terrifying. And I don't want Stan to think I stole you from him."

"He won't care."

"Kyle," Kenny says, the tone of his voice familiar and grating. With horror I realise it's a tone I've abused many times, usually when explaining something to others that seems painfully obvious to me. So overly patient and patronising. "I never told you this, because it didn't really make sense to me until this morning.

"When we were in middle school, me and you got partnered up for a history project. It was so fucking insignificant I can't even remember what it was about; we didn't spend much time on it. Like, a week, maybe? But it meant that we were hanging out with just each other after school and during lunch.

"I was cool with this – you're pretty good to hang out with when you don't have sand in your ass – and you seemed pretty cool with it, too, except for the part where you were texting Stan every two seconds. I stopped being quite so cool with it when Stan punched me in the face after the class where partners were announced."

"Lazy bastard probably just wanted me to do all the work," I say with a shrug.

"Yeah, he was so fucking butthurt about having to do a dumb project that he refused to speak to me for all of that week, except when he was acting crazy. Sure, Kyle."

"You shouldn't say 'crazy', Kenny. It's ableist."

"The fuck is that? Anyway," he says, before I get chance to educate him, "at first, he was really fucking pissed at me. The Tuesday after, he ranted at me – fuck, he sounded just like Cartman, it was that bad – and punched me again. Wednesday, he was all sugary sweet and asked if I'd switch partners with him if he gave me twenty bucks."

"You said no?"

"I needed an A so I didn't get held back that year," Kenny explains. "And Stan was partnered with Cartman. You should be flattered, dude, it was really hard to say no when he offered me fifty bucks and a bunch of his games."

"What then?"

"He punched me in the face again. Then he didn't turn up for school the next day; I heard he'd been seen dressed all in black. When he came to school dressed normally on Friday I thought he'd gotten over his case of doucheitis, but when I asked how his project was he acted all...what's that word when people seem not to care? It sounds like it should be fluffy."

"Aloof?"

"That's it. Aloof. Sounds like it should be a brand of candyfloss. Anyway, he told me that he hoped I was happy with my new best friend and to go fuck myself with our paper."

"He exhibited all the stages of the Kübler-Ross model?" I breathe, smiling. Kenny stares at me like I've started speaking in Klingon. Confused, incredulous and a little disgusted.

"How the hell would I know? I like my models with big tits."

I lapse into silence, my memory finally filling in the rest of the story. I honestly had no idea that Stan was mad at Kenny; like he said, I'd been texting Stan non-stop and Stan was responding like nothing was wrong. On the last day of the project, though, he'd been oddly difficult to find outside of class and not very talkative when in class. So I did the logical thing – after school, I climbed the tree outside his bedroom window and banged on it until he let me in.

He didn't look great. He had dark circles under his eyes and the skin on his lip was flaking. Cold weather and a tendency to bite your lip when nervous will do that to you, and Stan was a frequent lip-biter. He was dressed in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, the ideal for those so distracted by other things that buttons present a serious intellectual challenge. I was naturally filled with concern, worried that he had let this project stress him out to the detriment of his health and -

No, that's a lie. I figured spending a week with Cartman had been a bit stressful and then started thinking about how hot he looked. I hadn't had much opportunity to study him for a week and I was totally just drinking it all in. Yeah, I'm an asshole.

"Hey dude," I said as I slipped inside, completely nonchalant. "Let's hang out." I plopped myself on his bed and waited for a response. He stared at me for what felt like hours and I fretted that he might have noticed me checking him out. I used to worry about that a lot, seriously, I'm lucky it didn't turn me grey.

Suddenly he jumped on top of me, his arms enveloping my body. It was simultaneously one of the best and most terrifying moments of my life. My totally hot best friend hugging me and pinning me down to his bed, the sheets smelling of him, his head beside mine and his beautiful black hair on my face? Hell yes to all of that, except for the part where it was too damn good – I was a teenage boy and I could get hard if Stan was wearing a well-fitting t-shirt. Full body contact was risky enough that I almost shoved him off me and fled.

Just as quickly as it had happened, it was over. Stan was off me and chattering away about some new high score he'd reached whilst setting up a film for us to watch.

"Earth to Kyle," Kenny says, breaking my reminiscences at a handy stopping point. "Come in, Kyle. Don't you dare be in some sort of coma or some shit. You mom'll kill me."

"I was thinking about Stan."

"Surprise of the fucking century."

"It's just...he liked me for a long time, I think. I mean, in that way. And in general, obviously."

"Is this going anywhere?"

"What if I just ruined the best thing that'll ever happen to me? And just because of my parents?" I clutch my head in my hands. "How will I cope without Stan in my life?"

"Is this a rhetorical question?" Kenny hesitantly asks, as if looking out for tricks.

"No! I really don't know what I'd do! I live with him; we have a fucking routine!"

"A routine for fucking? Yawn, dude. Are you guys nineteen or ninety?"

"Don't be an idiot. I meant...I do the laundry, he cooks, I organise our clothes, he does the shopping. Stuff like that."

"Boring. Who takes it in the ass?"

"None of your fucking business."

"You do. Got it."

"_Actually_," I hiss, "He takes it fifty-five percent of the time."

Instead of being impressed by my masculinity, Kenny starts laughing uncontrollably. He wipes his eyes quickly, trying to keep his view of the road steady, but he's having trouble sitting straight. I fail to see what's so hilarious, and air said view.

"Fifty-five percent!" he repeats. "You made a fucking tally or something?"

"I have a spreadsheet. Not that it's any of your business."

This doesn't dissuade him from laughing, but actually makes it worse. Now he's shaking as he's driving and I have to grab the steering wheel to stop us rolling off the road.

"What the fuck for?" he finally wheezes.

"To get an accurate reading on what Stan actually enjoys, so when I really want to wow him I know exactly how to do it."

Kenny looks at me, incredulously. I wish my car was a convertible so he'd catch a fly in his gaping mouth. Teach him to be so fucking judgemental.

"I really don't know whether it's awesome or terrifying that you turn fucking into a matter of research."

"Stan thinks it's awesome," I loftily say, then I remember our situation with a pang. "Thought, I mean."

"But what if what he enjoys changes depending on other stuff?"

"I do have annotated notes, Kenny. I'm aware of trends."

"Jesus tittyfucking Christ," Kenny mumbles, shaking his head. I huff and straighten in my seat defensively. I'd defend my position but I haven't slept in so long, I just can't be bothered. Especially since the last time I did sleep, Stan woke me up at the crack of dawn with his stupid dancing and music...

It hits me that that will be the last time Stan wakes me by thrusting his crotch in my face. Sure, I complained about it -at length, to anyone who'd listen – but it was kind of nice. It kind of made me feel like a king with court dancers. No fucking way would anyone else do that for me. Even less likely was someone dancing over to me whilst bringing me breakfast in bed, whilst dressed as Nightwing.

I awoke a few hours later, after a very vivid dream in which Stan had taken to eating bacon sandwiches in our room because he knew I loved the smell. He was dressed as Green Arrow, most detestable of all superheroes (save Marvel ones, obviously) and dancing for a gaggle of guys, all of whom were a zillion times hotter than I am – though that isn't saying much, I guess.

The vision facing me now – my mom storming towards me across the front yard – isn't much of an improvement. I meekly get out of the car whilst Kenny flees, yelling "See you, Kyle! Bye, Mrs Broflovski!" as he goes. I kind of hope he slips on the ice and breaks something for abandoning me to my obviously infuriated mother.

"Kyle Broflovski," she begins, using the tried and true method of abusing my full name to whittle down what little spirit I have remaining. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Whatever Cartman told you is a filthy lie," I begin, hoping she doesn't notice the way my fingers are interlocking and flexing as they always do when I'm nervous. "I am totally, one hundred percent, straight. I love girls."

"In the house," she orders, pointing at the building as if I could have forgotten what a house was. "Now."

I obey her since I don't want to die today, and she follows me inside. The front door is slammed shut behind her and I know I'm still in deep shit. She's taken a seemingly defensive position – arms folded, foot tapping impatiently, face angry. It makes me squirm and she knows it. I purse my lips, trying to hold back, but I know as well as she does that I'll be spilling everything in seconds.

"Fine!" I gasp, throwing up my arms. "I experimented with boys a little! Are you happy now?"

She doesn't react. She's like a Freudian psychoanalyst, the way she just lets everything eat at me until I'm forced to confess.

"Okay, not with boys, _per se_, just with Stan. Occasionally. Only on rare occasions."

Still nothing. Why is she wasting this power on me? She could be bringing political leaders and CEOs sobbing to their knees.

"We dated a bit," I mumble. My finger movements have gotten even more frenzied and I wish I had something to fidget with or some sort of distraction. What kind of house doesn't have the TV on all the time, anyway? Only ours, I'm sure. "I guess it got kind of serious. He got serious."

Oh _GOD_ she's still not doing anything. What more does she want? Videos of us ramming each other?

"He wants to get married," I blurt out. "But I knew you and dad and his parents would be pissed so I said I didn't want to come out and he was all sad and then last night he was acting weird and I kind of broke up with him and then Cartman knew we'd been dating because Stan told him and so I had to leave South Park until I could prove to you that I was straight."

"By opening a strip club."

"That's...yeah, that's right."

"Leaving us to worry when we phoned Stan's house this morning to ask when you'd be back and were told you weren't there."

"Well, having not been here, I couldn't really say..." I falter under her death glare. "Probably. Yes."

"Do you know what else emerged during that phone call, Kyle?"

Quite obviously I don't, but I'm not dumb enough to say that. I shake my head.

"Firstly, Sharon had to go check with Stanley whether or not you had stayed over. He was rather _abrasive_ with her."

"Not my fault."

"He was _abrasive and disrespectful_ because he is extremely distressed. Sharon thinks he didn't get a wink of sleep last night, having stayed awake crying all night."

I wince as she figuratively turns a knife in my chest. Given her expression, I'm just relieved it's not literally. I can't think of what to say, but mom's started speaking again.

"Naturally, Sharon was concerned and tried to find out what was wrong with her poor baby. He eventually admits that you two had a fight. I was prevented from finding out further by a ruckus downstairs. I made my apologies to Sharon and investigated what the racket was about."

"That can't have been my fault!" I protest. "I wasn't even in the state!"

"I found Eric at the front door."

"...Oh."

"He was telling your father how you were gay and how you'd been dating Stan. Your father was in a state of shock. Eric, meanwhile, was filming his response and goading him. That is, until Ike threatened him with a doomsday machine he'd apparently been working on. He's grounded, of course."

"Doomsday machine? Ike has a doomsday machine? Why aren't you more concerned about that?"

"That's not important right now, Kyle! Naturally, I rang Sharon again, but she's in a state of shock, Randy has gone out drinking – whether in celebration or what, I don't know, and I can't speak to Stan, so Abraham knows what he's doing. Now fix it!"

"What, everything?"

"Everything," she confirms.

"Okay," I say, brightly. "I'll go see Mrs Marsh, tell her we're not really gay and find Stan a nice girlfriend." As Mom hurls her prized antique vase at me, I deduce that wasn't the correct answer.

* * *

Thank you, everyone who kindly reviewed last time! Sorry that this is so Kyle-centric. We will get back to Stan (well, we kind of have to, don't we?), but Kyle has angsting, introspection and arguing to do first.

Next time on this thing I'm writing: Kyle's butt gets cold and we discover Oprah's involvement in the whole sorry affair!


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry about the wait with this chapter. I hit a block, but the next one is (mostly) written now, so the next break shouldn't be anywhere near as bad.

* * *

Mom pretty much kicks me out of the house. I hear the bolt sliding as soon as the door is slammed after me. Whilst in theory I could clamber up the tree in my backyard to gain entrance to the house, it's plain that I'm expected to go sort everything out. How ridiculous. My forehead aches like something's trying to break out of my skull and each step is a dangerous drain of my remaining energy.

I kick the ever-present snow on the sidewalk as I walk. Stan and I used to compete to see who could get the most tiny flakes of snow in the air with a single kick. The memory makes me kick the snow harder in frustration, but I find my foot gliding over hardened ice and suddenly I'm splayed out on the ground like a fool.

"Kyle?" Dammit, I would be caught looking like this, because what my day was needed another kick to the balls. I groan and scramble to my feet. I try to busy myself with brushing the snow off in order to hide my red face.

"Hi, Craig," I reply, brushing my hair out of my face and cooling my skin with my damp glove. I hope it's enough to reduce how flushed I must look. "Listen, I can't really stay and chat-"

"Because you need to go make up with Stan," Craig interrupts, finishing my sentence for me. "Why bother?"

"Because I love him." Craig visibly winces. I remember what Cartman said and feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

"He's a bland pussy."

"And I'm an overly dramatic dick."

"He's always getting you entangled in dumb shit."

"It stops me just sitting in front of a computer or a bunch of books."

Craig takes hold of my arms. It hits me how alike he and Stan look – both with silky black hair that brushes the shoulder, the same model-perfect frame and build. It's just so easy to forget when Stan's face is almost always lit with a smile, his eyes crinkled by joy. Craig's face is always so hard and fixed – except right now. His pale cheeks are tinted with a slight blush and his features are unusually relaxed.

"But you could have a normal life," he says, his face close enough to mine that I can see his breath crystallise between us. "You don't have to be dragged into all this craziness."

I can't help it. The urge is overwhelming. A chuckle escapes my lips and promptly snowballs into full-blown laughter. Craig drops his hold on me and his typical scowl has returned.

"I'm sorry, Craig," I say, shaking my head. "The weirdness... It's not just in Stan. It's just as strong in me as it is in him."

"You're wrong."

"No, really. When I thought I'd lost Stan and my parents were going to find out I sucked dick, I kidnapped Kenny and fled to New Mexico. I was going to start a strip club."

"But that's because of the effect he has on you! The effect your parents have on you!" Craig yells. I blink. I've never seen Craig show so much emotion as he has this weekend. "You need to get out of this town, get away from these people."

"If you hate it so much, what're you doing here?"

He fixes me with a look, and it isn't a nice one. I'm not accustomed to being treated like an idiot, which is clearly what Craig currently believes I am. Nevertheless, he can stare at me like that all he wants, since I still don't get it. After we've stood in silence (and in the cold) for a few minutes, he realises I'm too dumb to figure it out alone.

"Because I love you, moron."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I've always liked you more than those dumb friends of yours-"

"Stan and Kenny are not dumb!"

"-Because you're obviously too smart for this town. You're so capable and clever. You're also pretty amusing when you're whining."

"I do not whine."

"You're a grouchy, sarcastic little bitch who's too clever to waste away in this rut."

"Wow, I do feel loved. You should go write romance novels."

Craig's face contorts and it takes me a moment to process his expression as a smile. Not a smirk, a genuine smile. It's surreal to say the least. I have to resist pinching myself.

"If you weren't stuck solving Stan's fuck-ups all the time, you could be something great. You've proven that already."

"I have?" I ask. Given my level of intellect in this conversation, I'm astonished he can say stuff like that with conviction.

"Yeah, dumbass. When he was off dating Wendy in freshman year, you developed a theory that could have fixed the world economic crisis."

"Oh, that. Only the inflationary problems and it'd still leave booms and busts, but they'd be a little shallower." I shrug. "I only did it because I wanted something to take my mind off things and Cartman said I couldn't do it."

"Then he broke up with her and you never published your findings."

"Rock Band 8 was released and we wanted to top the world leader boards." And we totally did. I still have the screenshots framed on my wall, between my high school diploma and my Nobel Peace Prize certificate.

Craig's smile has gone and for the first time, I wonder if maybe my priorities had been a bit messed up at the time. But I'd really missed Stan. Without him, I just feel like there's no point doing anything. Which is kind of pathetic, but we can all be kind of pathetic from time to time.

"You realise how much potential you're throwing away, right?"

"I realise way more than that," I snap. "You seem to have this moronic idea that all the bad stuff I do is inexorably linked to Stan. You don't get that, yeah, we both could be doing awesome stuff separately – I'm a bad influence on him at times too – but I know that without him, I burn out like potassium on water. Who fucking cares what I could achieve if it'd kill me inside?"

I pause for breath. Ranting in the chilly air can really hurt your throat. Craig shifts his weight from foot to foot as I await his retort.

"You seemed fine that time in freshman year," he says, so softly I barely register it. "You were happy when you dropped those guys."

"I acted happy. It was just easier to do around you and your friends than it was with mine."

"Don't you want a normal life?"

"Not as much as I want Stan."

"You'd choose a life filled with monsters, celebrities hunting you and holy wars over screwing someone else. Really."

"Yeah, that sounds right."

"What if you've fucked everything up with him?"

"Nothing can fuck up what we have," I say, with more confidence than I actually feel.

We stand in silence again. Craig is steadfastly looking at the floor rather than meeting my gaze. It's tempting to just make a break for Stan's whilst he's processing everything, but I'm not that much of an asshole. Nope, that's a lie. I just don't want to face Stan or his mom yet.

"I was wrong about you. You're almost as fucked up as he is."

"Totally."

"And you should probably get back together to save everyone else from that shit."

"I concur." I salute him lazily. "See you."

"Whatever." He flips me off. I grin. He grins back. I've no clue how he's feeling or how he feels about me now – although I imagine it's a good deal less fond – but I don't have the time or the energy to expend on that. I resume my trek to Stan's house, emboldened by the conversation. Stan and I are meant to be. He's the cream to my strawberries, the anchovies to my pizza, the glacé cherry to my fries. My tummy rumbles. Too bad, I can't eat until Stan is no longer pissed off at me.

As I walk, I replay the events at the bar, the drive to South Park and that morning at college. Sure, he was an asshole for outing me to Cartman, and he was being stubborn about the whole coming-out thing, but Cartman probably did something to him. Or did he? Does it even matter? He was probably drunk and upset, sure, but that's a big betrayal. Would he betray me again?

I sit on an icy bench and adopt the pose of Rodin's Thinker. This is the first time I've really considered what he did and the implications of it. At first, I was too busy reeling from the hurt to properly process it in greater depth than 'Fuck, what a douche', then I was forced home and Mom wanted me to apologise and then the thing with Craig made me realise how dependant I am on him. Now, I'm not sure I want to be. If my parents had taken the news badly, what would have happened then? His actions could have potentially left me without a family. Is that something I can really forgive?

Then I try to envisage a future without Stan in it and my heart feels like it's imploding. He's been with me almost every day of my life. On almost all of those days, he's been the best friend or boyfriend anyone could hope for. How dare I judge him based on one error after all I've done to him?

Like break up with him on a drunken whim before I even knew he'd betrayed me.

I clutch my head with both hands. My nails, though short, are digging into my flesh enough to perforate it. I don't move them. I deserve the pain. In that moment, I broke the trust we'd cultivated over our entire lifetimes.

But I was terrified. I couldn't stand the thought of my parents knowing. He'd shunned me to hang out with Cartman. He did something which he knew would only bring me pain.

Shivering, I put my hands in my coat pockets. My hand hits something smoother than the general debris of chip packets and candy wrappers and I pull it out. It's a small, folded square of lined paper. I unwrap it slowly, my hands shaking. I recognise the scrawl that covers the entire page.

_Dear Kyle,_

_STOP READING RIGHT NOW IF YOU'RE NOT KYLE. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND MAKE YOU EAT YOUR OWN EYEBALLS IF YOU IGNORE THIS, CARTMAN, IKE OR SHELLEY._

_Surprise! I wrote you a love letter to take home with you. But I didn't want to tell you because then you'd fret about not having written me one and you'd waste whatever time we have left trying to make it absolutely perfect. Writing whatever springs to mind in a boring lecture wouldn't be good enough for you – although that's what I'm doing now. I hope it doesn't show, except right here where I admit it, I mean._

_Fuck, what a crappy start to a love letter. I'd better start making with the mushiness, huh? _

_I love you, Kyle. I love everything about you, including the stuff I know you hate about yourself. You're perfect to me, flaws and all. Not that you have many flaws. Aw, crap, I really suck at this love letter stuff. Sorry. I mean it, though – I love how smart you are, how funny and passionate and fun you always are and how you just make everything better. _

_I'll love you forever, I know it. I wouldn't have started dating you if I didn't think we'd stick together. I'd totally want to screw your brains out, over and over, no matter what., but our friendship was too awesome to risk away for anything less than perfection. Really, really hot perfection._

_Yours always,_

_Stan_

The words on the page turn to blotches as tears roll off my face. The pendulum of uncertainty has swung back to guilt at full force. He's always doing sweet, awesome things for me – sneaking candy bars into my backpack when he knows I'll have a tough day in class, texting me just to say that he loves me, being my own personal army when someone's being a jerk to me on the internet – and I repay him with shit like this.

Stan's too sweet to have shown Cartman that picture.

The realisation hits me like a wrecking ball. I flop back on the bench, no longer hunched over pathetically. Cartman either stole Stan's phone for blackmail material or just caught a glimpse of the picture when Stan checked his phone. Or just made a cunning guess. It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe he did get Stan to admit something, through wheedling and manipulation. In any case, Stan can't be faulted.

And I played right into Cartman's hands.

I feel hollow and worthless, not remotely up to confronting Mrs Marsh or begging Stan for forgiveness, but I get up and start walking again regardless. Stan deserves my sincerest apologies and he's waited too long for them already.

Suddenly, I find myself at Stan's familiar front door. My finger hovers over the buzzer. As soon as I press it, there'll be no chance of escape. I'll have to see whatever happens to the end. I force my hand a fraction closer, but there's still the slimmest gap between it and my fingertip.

The door is flung open without warning and I find myself facing Stan's dad. His eyes are wild and his coat is dangling from one arm. He's grinning maniacally and I'm even less sure I'll like what this house contains.

"Kyle! So great to see you!" He seizes my arm and pulls me inside. "You should go talk to Stan. And Sharon! See Sharon first! No, wait, I'll take you to her!" I find myself dragged to Stan's living room and thrown onto the sofa, beside Stan's mom. She's staring at the TV set, which would be totally normal if it'd been switched on. She's got black lines down both her cheeks, which means fashion is getting weirder or she's been crying. "Anyway, I have to go see this guy about a duck, so I'll leave you two to catch up!"

Ignoring my protests, he flees the scene. I allow myself slight satisfaction from the fact that his trailing coat catches in the door after he slams it shut, making it tear, but it's not much comfort. I glance back at Stan's mom, who hasn't moved.

"Um. Sorry," I say. I'm not sure what I'm sorry for in particular, since I have so much to be apologetic about right now, but I hope it's a start. Although none of it is probably what's bothering her. "You probably don't want to see me right now, I know, but...actually I just came to see Stan."

As I say his name, she erupts into loud sobs again. I gingerly pat her back and pass her a box of tissues. I'm irked that she's taking it this badly, but I force myself to at least try to be understanding.

"He doesn't want to see you. Ever," she tells me, taking a tissue and blotting her eyes. "And now you've ruined everything."

I had a speech prepared about being accepting of her son's sexuality and the oppressiveness of heteronormativity, but it dies in my throat. What does come out is a small, strangled noise that sounds vaguely questioning. Sharon seems to take it as a prompt and continues, glaring at me.

"Do you know what a mother wants, Kyle?"

"That really varies depending on the individual in question and-" I whimper at the look she gives me and mutter, "No, not really."

"She wants her babies to be happy, successful and to have an amazing wedding that is better than the weddings of her friends' children, preferably before her friends' children have chance to get married."

"Stan still likes girls," I mumble, studying the carpet. Stan's living room carpet has this weird pattern that entrances you, sucking you in as you examine it as a whole and then in segments and then as a whole again, like being forced to look at something up close and far away simultaneously. It's a welcome distraction from the conversation, but so would a herd of zombie elephants knocking the wall down. Anything to fill this gap in the lecture would be welcome, right now.

"Stan isn't going to marry any girl." I'm forced away from the hypnotic carpet.

"What?"

"You heard exactly what I said, Kyle. And you know it's true." She looks me straight in the eyes. "Stan has never had a proper relationship with anyone except you. Because of you."

"Wendy-"

"Was never properly his girlfriend and you know it," she says, firmly. "He never needed her. Not when he has you."

She looks at me expectantly. I supremely fail to meet expectations and stay silent. The twists of the conversation have thrown me way too much to have anything of worth to say.

"I waited years for you two to see the obvious and start dating," she suddenly seethes. "Years. I was sure that once you got together you'd be inseparable and then you'd get married with the biggest, most amazing wedding and Tracy Darron would be envious as hell. You'd be the one wearing the dress."

"I would not!" I shout, leaping to my feet.

"Would so."

"I have never, ever considered what my wedding would be like, but I'm sure as hell that I won't be wearing a dress at it!"

The bawling that ensues suggests that wasn't the right response. Moms just aren't impressed with me tonight.

"You never considered marrying my baby?"

"I...planned to live with him. Does that count?"

"But Oprah says all gay couples have big gay weddings!" she cries. "Kyle, I've been banking on this for years! Not that it matters, now." She slouches in her seat. "Now my baby will be broken-hearted and single forever."

"You know, your position on this explains why he was so defeatist when Wendy broke up with him those times." She doesn't seem to hear me.

"I hunted high and low for a place in Colorado that lets you rent flamingoes," she sighs. "And a rainbow limousine."

"Stan and I would hate both of those things."

"But I've spent years perfecting flamingo tiaras!" She hurries out of the room. I contemplate fleeing the scene, but she returns before I can make my exit. She's accompanied by the tiniest monstrosity I've ever seen. I'm going to take her word that there's a tiara under there, but all I can see underneath the pink fur and towering feathers of various colours (why would a flamingo need extra feathers, anyway?) is sequins. Lots and lots of sequins. Unfortunately, Sharon takes my fallen jaw the wrong way. "Impressive, aren't they?"

"Does Stan know about this?"

"Of course not!" she says, indignantly, as if I'm the idiot - when she's the one clutching a Mardi Gras headdress for a bird. "I was waiting for you two to get engaged."

"Let me get this straight, okay? You're upset not because Stan's gay, but because it's spoilt your plans of having your kid married first and having said wedding be...incredibly flamboyant?"

"And because you've broken my son's heart," she reminds me.

"It wasn't that simple! Besides, you and Randy – and my parents – could have dropped a few hints that you were okay with us being gay, if you thought there was a chance we could be together." She raises her eyes to the heavens as if looking for a reprieve from my dumbness.

"Why," she says, enunciating each word deliberately, "Do you think we kept getting you tickets to see wrestling shows?"

"Was that Randy's idea?" She snorts.

"Please. He wanted to drop you off at an all-male strip club every week until you both came out."

"But...you and my parents used to talk about who would be the first to have grandkids."

"It's called an in-joke, Kyle. We all knew we'd get grandkids at the same time." She sniffs. "Until this morning, that is."

I stand up. She seems to have calmed down a little now and all of this...whatever this is – is seriously fogging my brain up. Stan will be seriously mad and I'll need to focus on ducking whatever he chooses to chuck at me when I enter – whilst apologising profusely.

"I have to go see Stan now," I tell her.

"Are you going to make up with him?"

"I hope so."

"Are you going to pop the question?" My lip curls of its own accord.

"No. No, I am not going to pop the question whilst he wants my liver on a plate."

She nods sagely, her gaze still fixed on the tiara. "And you need to get him a nice ring."


	5. Chapter 5

_So...hey, it's this! And it's done! Sorry for the ridiculously long cliffhanger!_

* * *

I flee up the stairs, desperate to get away from Sharon and her wedding plans. I bang urgently on Stan's door. I need the sanctuary, even if said sanctuary seems to be blasting out crappy goth music. It's impossible to tell if I'm being ignored or if Stan just can't hear me over the racket he's making in there.

"Stan!" I yell, still pounding on the door. "Let me in!"

"Go fuck yourself," he yells back. I struggle to think of a comeback to this. My head feels like a really bad thing, I'm tired and I can't do words any more. I can't do much any more.

"No!"

"I'm not letting you in, fuckwad."

Fuck this. I'm too tired and all those other things for this. I'm drained from all the confrontations today and all I want is a nap, preferably in my nice snug bed. Not that Mom will let me in unless I've got a signed declaration from Stan saying we're totally cool again.

This is all too much work and my head's feeling like a swimming pool being beaten with a sledgehammer. The carpet looks cosy...

* * *

Something is poking me in the ribs. I complain with a screech and wave a floppy arm in the vague direction of the offending object. I swipe empty air and the thing keeps poking me in the ribs. I creak my eyes open, but I'm not happy about it. I learn that I'm being poked by a foot in stripy black and grey socks. I bat at it again, but the foot has more strength than I do right now and it keeps poking.

"You're alive," an unseen voice says. I smile. I know that voice. That's Stan's voice. Stan is great.

The side of my face is sore. I prise myself enough off the floor to feel it. It's indented with a weird bumpy texture. I look down at my bedding. There is no bedding. It is a floor. Why am I on the floor? I'm still being poked, too. I don't like this.

"Are you even listening?" That's Stan again. I crane my neck to look up at him. He's the owner of the evil foot. Why is he poking me? "Because you were lying on the floor outside my room like a dead animal, dumbass." Huh. I guess I said that aloud. "Yeah. You did."

Something is wrong. I think I'm frowning quizzically, but I'm not sure I've got full control of my face right now. Stan is wrong.

"Emo!" I yell, swinging my arm up to point at him. It flies too far and I hit myself in the face. Ow. But Stan is clad all in black. Even the area around his eyes looks really black. Is he wearing makeup? He looks like a panda. I giggle and flop forward on the floor. Stan pushes the door to close it, but I'm now blocking its path. Take that, door.

"Fuck, Kyle," Stan says. He sounds really angry. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"My head hurts." I rub my forehead. "And I feel tired. Can I nap in your bed?"

He's gone silent on me. I paw at his legs pleadingly. Why does he have stripy knee socks, anyway? Not that they don't suit him, it's just a bit weird. They do show off the muscular shape of his legs really well. I look a bit higher. What I'd previously just categorised as blackness is actually a pair of tight black shorts. Mmm.

"Kyle, you broke up with me." I laugh.

"Did not."

"Yes, you really did."

"But I love you."

"You broke up with me in front of our friends. In the middle of Kenny's gig."

Actually, that does sound vaguely familiar. But why would I do that? Stan is my favourite person ever. Damn, I'm too sleepy and head achey to deal with this mystery.

"Strip club," I mutter. There was something about a strip club. Is that why we broke up?

"What?" Stan sighs irritably, resigns himself to my ineffectiveness and drags me into his room. He slams the door behind him and sits on the bed, legs crossed and arms folded. It's like he's some awesome prince and I'm the lowly pauper here to beg for whatever paupers beg for. Money? Clothes? Gruel? I wish I could be on the bed, joining him on his throne, but getting up there seems like way too much effort. I settle for lying on the floor. My eyelids are heavy.

Craig was involved. What the hell happened? I bury my head in my hands and try to process everything. It's all just a jumble of mixed images in my head. Me and Kenny in a car. Kenny kissing me. Beers. Craig smiling at me. Fucking rainbow limousines. Stan driving and playing crappy music. Stan dancing in the morning.

Stan's face, his mouth open with shock. Red smears on his cheeks from embarrassment. Tears on the cusp of his eyelids. Shit, I did that. The image sobers me. I look up at him. He's not meeting my eyes, his arms wrapped around himself protectively.

"I fucked up," I say. He nods, visibly swallowing.

"You only just realised?"

"You didn't show Cartman your phone background pic, did you?" He snorts, but still won't look at me.

"I did not. Not that it'd matter now."

"I kind of outted us by accident," I mumble. Stan shakes his head.

"My background is now a skull."

"The hell?"

"It represents the futility of life." He pauses, his lips pursed. "And friends," he adds, bitterly. "Fuck those douches. Fuck them in their rubbery asses."

"I was drunk and scared!" My lip trembles. I bite it closed, but it's no use. "And douches don't have asses. It'd be counterproductive for their aim, which is often counterproductive in any case, but-"

"Oh, God, shut the fuck up," he says, clutching at his hair in thick clumps. "And you forgot: you were mostly an asshole."

"Yeah. But so were you."

That makes Stan look at me. His face is twisted with fury, his teeth bared in a snarl. I shuffle backwards a little, feeling like one of those cheap floor crawling army toys.

"I was an asshole? I'm not the one who made out with Kenny, flirted with Craig, told Bebe I had a girlfriend and broke up with his best friend and boyfriend!"

"No, but you're the one who blew me off for Cartman and didn't care that I was scared about coming out!"

"You eloped to New Mexico with Kenny!"

"Only to start a strip club!" I protest. Stan growls. Guess that's not a good excuse. "Which was only to prove that I was straight to my parents!"

"You'd be less ashamed of that than dating me?" Stan yells, balling his hands into fists and thumping the bed.

"I'm not ashamed of dating you!" I reply, startled. The shouting is kicking my exhausted brain into working at last."

"Yeah, because you're not dating me any more!"

"I was never ashamed of you! I thought I'd get disowned for being gay!"

Stan's face goes through a series of expressions and finally settles on his confused, squinty faced one that he gets when he tries to read my Modernism textbooks – usually before hurling them across the room and ranting at how pointless it all is. I pretend I disagree just to make him rant himself into a state of delirious annoyance, for which the only cure and outlet is my ass. Good times.

"But your mom campaigned to have our high school include gay sex in the safe sex lectures," Stan says, staring at me.

"That's because she wanted it to be equal!"

"And she ran that thing about making it easier for gay couples to adopt."

"They should be able to adopt."

"And she sent you to college with lube."

"Along with a full size first aid kit, bear mace and three hundred pairs of socks. I figured she was just buying me everything I might ever conceivably need."

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. I'm slightly affronted by this, given the connotations. I'm nowhere near as obtuse as his dad, who elicits that response in him the most. "And why would she think you'd need lube?"

"Why would she think I'd need bear mace? I don't apply logic to what my mother does." Stan groans.

"Okay. I assumed that your parents would be fine with you being gay on the basis of evidence and logic."

"Even if they were going to be okay with it, you shouldn't dictate when I'm supposed to come out."

"I know," he sighs. He bows his head. "I just...I was totally stoked to be dating you at last. I wanted to show everyone how I'd won at life."

"Dating me isn't winning at life, Stan."

"It was for me," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Nothing has ever been as important to me as you."

"But you're way more awesome than I am." He shakes his head.

"Nu uh."

"Yuh huh. You're the sporty, sociable one. That's, like, society's ideal."

"Society sucks ass."

We lapse into silence. I smile at him. He manages a tiny, faint smile in response, but his eyes are still misty. I gingerly reach out and stroke his leg. He doesn't flinch away.

"I told Bebe I had a girlfriend so she'd stop hitting on me or trying to set me up with Kenny."

"What about Craig?"

"He just came up to me and offered to buy me a beer."

"He totally has the hots for you, though," Stan grumbles. "He wanted to pounce on you."

"Not so much since I told him I'd rather stick with you and weird shit happening all around me than live a normal life without you." Stan smirks.

"Take that, Craig," he whispers.

"But I was still an asshole and I'm sorry-" Stan waves a hand irritably.

"Don't care. What else did you say to Craig?"

"Um." I wrack my brains. "That'd I'd burn out without you and stuff."

Stan grins, his face alight with glee. He wriggles towards me, sitting on the very brink of the bed.

"What else?"

"That I'd rather hang out with you than solve all the world's problems."

"And?"

"Shit, dude, I don't know. Does it matter?" Stan flips his hair to the side and looks away from me. "What have I done now?"

"You didn't tell him you loved me?"

"Well, duh. I did. He didn't like that." Stan grins again. "Can we get off the mushy crap now?" I plead.

"Dude, I'm your boyfriend."

"You are?"

"Duh."

"But I kind of broke up with you."

"Dumbass." Stan grabs my hands and pulls me onto his lap. "We argued when we were just best friends, right?"

"Yeah, but not like-"

"Shut up, Kyle, and get ready to learn something today. We argued, we made up, and we went back to being best friends again. Right?"

"Yes, but-"

"And we didn't waste time worrying about how to make things go back to normal again. We didn't ask if we could be best friends again, we didn't change how we hung out or any of that crap. It just was normal."

"So I don't need to get you flowers for a month?"

"Fuck, no. Let the poor things live. I just want things to go back to how they were. You loving me and-" He moans. "Kyle, what is your hand doing?"

"You know damn well what my hand is doing," I purr in his ear, my hand in his underpants, wrapped around his cock. "You wanted things to go back to how they were, right?"

"Hell yes. Oh, fuck, do that again..."

I stroke him as requested and lean in closer, my lips brushing against his ear. "And we're alone and I want to fuck you."

"I'd figured."

He pulls me to lie flat on the bed with him. I keep stroking his cock as well as his ridiculously tight shorts will allow. Stan picks up on the hint and unzips them, giving me more freedom. I nibble on his earlobe appreciatively and pump him harder as thanks.

"Love you," I whisper. He purrs appreciatively and pulls me into a hard, hungry kiss. I kiss back, desperate for his touch, his taste. It's disarmed me, I realise, as somehow he's managed to climb on top of me and is straddling my crotch.

"I'm topping," he announces, smiling wickedly and grinding into me.

"No, see, you're on top, right now, but in a bottoming kind of way," I explain, my thought process somewhat derailed by what he's doing to me. "When it gets to the act, I am so pounding your ass." He shakes his head, still grinning. "I have to! You're wearing knee socks. That's, like, the ultimate sign of bottoming."

It probably isn't, but I don't give a fuck. Those tiny shorts – still temptingly undone – and socks that reach that far up, so cutely, are seriously messing with my head. All I can think about how tempting what's still covered up is and how I want to plunge into it.

"This is your punishment."

"I thought you said that we didn't need to worry about that crap 'cause we're so awesome?"

"Oh, yeah. Whatever. This is to keep you wanting me and stop you running off with someone else or something, then."

"Fine. But you have to bring those socks and shorts back to college."

"Deal."

He rips my jacket off without bothering to unfasten it. The zipper makes a painful screeching noise and a snap. It's probably bust, but there are more exciting things going on – like Stan wrenching my t-shirt roughly off my chest and throwing it out of sight. I peel his top off to make the situation nice and fair. Abraham, that chest, that tightly muscled chest. How close I came to never seeing it again.

He dives down and unzips my jeans with his teeth, making me groan and jerk my hips without thought. He drags the jeans off my skinny legs, which look spindly juxtaposed with his, but his hands in my boxers takes my mind nicely off the matter. He strips me of the few remaining items of clothing with ease. I reach to get him out of those pants, but he grabs my wrists, pins them down to the bed, then flips me over. My sulky cry is muffled by the mattress which is suddenly in my face. Stan grinds his hips into my bare ass, his hands still encapsulating my wrists. The shorts are suddenly losing favour with me as the cold metal button grazes my skin.

"You're mine," he whispers. "All mine, and don't you forget it."

"All yours," I whisper back, rocking my hips against his. He moans at the friction. "All of me. Yours."

"Fuck, Kyle," he mutters, moving off me. I raise my hips towards him expectantly, listening out for the familiar sound of his clothes being discarded. As the expected crumpling of his clothes on the floor comes, I smile. I close my eyes, waiting for him to be ready to take me. It could be a while – he's rummaging around in his drawer for the lube, apparently locating everything but. There's a cascade of falling objects. I grin. He wouldn't need to empty his drawers nearly so much if he organised them.

I shiver a little as his finger, cold from the lube, presses against me. I try to relax. His finger slides in. He massages me, making me kick my legs happily, then presses another finger, then another, inside.

"This is mine," he whispers, stroking my insides. I don't argue. He retracts his fingers. A few seconds pass too slowly, then I feel his cock against my asshole. I grit my teeth at the stretching – I'm still not quite accustomed to it – but he's starting off gently as always. He pauses once he's inside, letting me adjust before continuing.

The thrusts start shallow, soft, but I know more's coming. Stan has authority to exert tonight and neither of us have forgotten that. He starts by squeezing my ass roughly, pinching it and then smacking it so hard that I jolt forward. He grabs my hips and yanks me back to him, his thrusts getting more intense each time. My body quakes beneath him as he fucks me, harder, the words, "Mine, all mine," on his breath. He comes with a happy sigh, pulls out and wraps himself around me in a tight embrace.

"My Kyle," he says, kissing me on the cheek.

"Yours," I agree, nuzzling my head against his cheek. "But do me a favour? Tell Mom that I'm not this crappy a boyfriend usually."

"Only if you promise to never try opening a strip club with Kenny again."

"You got it."


End file.
